


Some Lullabies

by springsdandelion (writergirlie)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirlie/pseuds/springsdandelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's what you and I do. We protect each other." Katniss is there for Peeta as he struggles to put his life back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Lullabies

When it first starts happening again, I fail to recognize the signs. Only later would I come to realize that it never really ended to begin with.

 

Peeta keeps his back door unlocked, the one that leads straight into his kitchen. There’s no point to securing it, I suppose, with only a scant few of us having chosen to come back to this place, and the Victor’s Village no more populated than it was, even when the town wasn’t a desolate shadow of itself. Mostly, though, I think Peeta keeps it unlocked as an open invitation for me to come and go as I please, even if he’s never said this out loud.

 

One afternoon, I decided to take him up on the unspoken offer, bearing a fat rabbit I’d caught scurrying down by the lake just hours before, and a beaver that had wandered right into the trap I’d laid out. The distinctive smell of yeast greeted me when I walked in the door, heavy in the air like perfume. I took in a deep lungful of it, letting it seep into my bones and pull up happier memories to the surface: the simple pleasures of eating freshly baked bread with Prim and my mother; huddling close with Peeta in the cave as we smeared goat cheese over the rolls we got in Haymitch’s parachute; the first meal we shared together after he came back, on the morning after he finished planting the primroses all around the perimeter of my house.

 

Isolated moments of unexpected joy amidst the darkness that’s marred the last few years for both of us.

 

If I had been paying any kind of attention when I walked in—if I hadn’t still been trying to claw my way out of my own fog of grief—I would have picked up on the way he was clutching the back of the chair. I would seen how white his knuckles were, how he wasn’t even breathing. How his eyes were squeezed shut, as though to block out the entire world.

 

His grip loosened at the sound of the door closing behind me, and the air that had been collecting in his lungs slowly seeped out in a noiseless exhale. He managed a small nod of acknowledgement at what was slung over my shoulder, but I should have noticed then how he had avoided my eyes, even as he said my name in the hushed murmur that always steals my breath.

 

But I didn’t notice. And he was so good at hiding.

 

When it happens again, I’m not expecting it any more than I did the first time, but my mind is somewhat clearer, sharper, more ready to take in the details I’d missed these last few months, more ready to see where edges had blurred.  

 

 

As has been our ritual practically every morning since he’s been back, he comes over just after breakfast, art supplies in hand and a pastry box filled with some freshly baked treat he’s brought over for us to share. I allow myself a smile as I go into the study to fetch the memory book, listening to the familiar sounds I’ve come to grow fond of: the soft drag of his artificial leg against the floor, the rattle of his pencils as he unwraps them and lays them out on the table, the tinkle of his brushes against the glass as he places them inside an empty mason jar.

 

Then without warning, I hear something shatter—a cup, a plate? Panicked, I run back into the kitchen and see him bent over the chair, breath shallow. At his feet, the mason jar has smashed into a hundred tiny pieces, and his brushes are scattered all across the kitchen floor.

 

“Peeta?”

 

His arms are locked, elbows nearly hyperextended. He’s not letting go of this chair.

 

“Hey… you’re all right, you’re safe-”

 

He shakes his head. His eyes are shut so tightly I can see the vein throbbing in his forehead. I cross the distance between us, but when I try to reach for his face, he wrenches free from my touch, backing up and dragging the chair with him, until he backs into the wall and slides down, the chair falling over to the side, sending shards of glass spraying in all directions. I sink down before him, only vaguely aware of the broken pieces digging into my shins. It’s ok, they’re only cuts. I’ll clean them off later.

 

“Wherever you are, it’s not real… not real, do you hear me?”

 

“N-no-”

 

His hands are balled into fists. I close my hands over them, alarmed at the tension in his muscles. I begin to sweep my thumbs back and forth over his knuckles. Back and forth, back and forth.

 

_Come back to me, Peeta…_

 

“You’re in my house, remember?” I whisper. “You’re in my kitchen and we’re working on a memory book together…”

 

“Stop-”

 

“You were setting up your art supplies…”

 

“Don’t… Katniss, don’t-”

 

“You were going to draw my interview dress… The jeweled one that sparkled when I twirled around…”

 

His eyes are still closed. Still refusing to look into mine. I move my hands up to cup his face, but his jaw is clenched so tightly, I may as well be touching granite.

 

“What are you doing?” he says. His voice is hoarse. Insistent. “You shouldn’t be here… what are you still doing here-”

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Peeta.”

 

“I don’t… I don’t want you here…”

 

The words knife into me. They hurt worse than the feel of his hands around my throat. But I stay. And I pull him into me, cradling his head, rocking him gently. His hair is damp with sweat, muscles fighting a shudder.

 

_Come back to me, Peeta. Don’t let them take you from me again…_

 

When his breath finally starts to slow at last, I still my movement, feel him stir in my arms. His hands are bleeding, where glass has embedded in his palms. I clean his cuts and cover them with bandages. He avoids my eyes as I do this, and I don’t force him into conversation. He leaves after helping me clean up the mess, murmuring his apology before shutting the door behind him. I linger in the kitchen long after he’s gone, staring at the door and tasting the salt in my tears.

 

 

* * *

 

That night, I find myself at his back door again. My hand closes around the knob, scared for a moment that I’ll find it locked this time—that he’s shut me out—but it’s open, and I let myself in, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness as I pad across the floor.

 

I wonder if I should announce myself in some way. If I should knock over a chair or bump into some piece of furniture to let him know I’m in his house, but somehow, I think he’ll sense my presence. Maybe he’s even expecting it.

 

The door to his room is wide open, the breeze from the window making the thin curtains billow. He’s laying on his side, back to me, but I swear I see him turn his head ever so slightly in the direction of the foreign sound in his room. I pause at first, leaning against the doorjamb, but he moves his arm as if to extend his hand to me, and I climb into his bed, sliding my arm over his waist and pulling him to me to close the gap between us, my hips curving over his. I nestle my cheek into his shoulder blade and feel him slip his fingers through mine, bringing my hand up to his lips.

 

“When did this start back up again?”

 

I hear the rustle on his pillow as he shakes his head. “It never stopped.”

 

I’m glad he’s still got his back to me. Because he won’t see that I’ve started to cry. I swallow hard to force down the lump in my throat, but it only swells until I’m practically choking on it.

 

“How often does it happen?”

 

Softly, he says, “Not as much as before. But enough.”

 

There’s a long pause, then I feel the weight shift on the bed as he turns to face me. He stares at me for a long time, eyes searching mine in the weak light of the moon. His fingers trace the line of my jaw, settling on a scar just beneath my chin.

 

“I just wanted to… I need for you to know something.”

 

“What?”

 

“I would never hurt you again, Katniss.”

 

“I know.”

 

I’m not sure if I’m telling the truth when I say this, but I can’t bring myself to say otherwise.

 

“When I said I didn’t want you there, it wasn’t… it wasn’t because I was going to try and hurt you.”

 

“Peeta, it’s all right, you don’t have to expl-”

 

“No, I need to tell you this…” He pauses again. For a moment, I think he’s changed his mind about saying something, then he whispers, “It was because… I didn’t want you to see me that way.”

 

I reach up to touch his face, startled to find wetness beneath my fingertips. He lets out a long, shaky breath.

 

“Do you remember what I told you once?” I say. “You and I… we protect each other. We’ve always done that. We always will.”

 

I feel the tension leave his muscles. His hand moves to the small of my back to pull me into him, his forehead pressing into mine just before he kisses me. I taste his tears, or are they mine? They mingle in our mouths, on our tongues.

 

And here, in the darkness, in the comfort of his arms, I begin to sing us a lullaby.

 

_Close your eyes and sleep_

_Know that with me, you can weep_

_Know that when you wake_

_When the dawn is ready to break_

_I will be here by your side_

_Always…_

_Always…_

I fall asleep listening to the sound of his breathing.


End file.
